Long Shadows
by MistressParamore
Summary: A Sybil Ramkin/Sam Vimes chaptered fic. Sometimes echoes from the past want to be heard... Rated T for the moment. *HIATUS*
1. Chapter 1

_**Long Shadows**_

_A Sybil Ramkin/Sam Vimes fic, set prior to their marriage. A series of events place both Vimes and Sybil in situations they never thought would be in. The big question? Is it too late…..?_

**Rating:** T potentially

**Disclaimer:** Sadly they are not mine. Pterry must take all credit. I just take them out for a short stroll every now and again.

**Note**: _This is set, loosely, after Guards! Guards! But before their marriage at the end of Men at Arms. Any mistakes are entirely my own!_

**Chapter One**

_**Prologue**_

It was a day that started much like any other. Since their…_understanding_…Vimes had been staying over at Sybil's Scoone Avenue residence. After all, what was the point in a convoluted courtship at their age? Point of fact, he kept waiting for Sybil to turn around and tell him it had all been a hysterical joke perpetrated by the universe and that she had no intention of marrying him. But that wasn't Sybil, he knew that. Sybil was the kindest, most generous, compassionate woman he had ever met. Being around her, he actually felt in the depths of his battered and bruised organ formally known as a heart, that he might actually have something worthwhile. Something that he could be proud of.

This, unremarkable, morning saw Vimes walking slowly up Scoone Avenue after a night's work. As always, he removed his helmet as he walked around the side of the house looking for Sybil by the dragon pens. A quick greeting and Vimes went up to his room to change, have breakfast, and settle down for a day's sleep. A day just like any other.

Days that change your life shouldn't be so…._ordinary_.

* * *

Vimes awoke in slight disorientation to the sound of pounding. His immediate thought was that it was his head before he remembered that he was laying off the Bearhuggers. Frowning, he realized it was the front door and squinted at the bedroom window trying to work out how long he had been asleep. Deciding that it wasn't his problem, he fell back against the feather pillows – _feather! Real feathers!_ – and closed his eyes.

A light tapping on his bedroom door disturbed his solitude, followed by the calm tones of Willikins, the Ramkin's butler.

"Captain Vimes? I'm sorry to disturb your sleep, Sir, but a Constable Carrot is here to see you on what he says is a 'matter of urgency', Sir," the quotation marks falling effortlessly into place.

Vimes groaned. What the hell had Carrot managed to find this time? Swinging his legs out of bed, Vimes grabbed a robe and stood up.

"Alright, alright, tell him I'm coming and it had better be good!"

"Very good, Sir," the butler said crisply and closed the bedroom door behind him.

Vimes sighed. So it was going to be one of _those_ nights, was it? Gods only knew what had Carrot in a flap this time.

As Vimes descended the ornate staircase, he saw Carrot standing awkwardly at attention, just inside the large front door. Upon seeing Vimes, he saluted smartly.

"Sir! You have to come quickly, Sir! It's the Patrician!"

Vimes stared. Carrot's honest, red face stared back, contorted in sincere and honest eagerness.

"What? The Patrician? What are you talking about, Carrot?"

"Nobby, Sir!"

Vimes ground his teeth and took several steadying breaths before saying, with admirable calmness, "Carrot. Tell me what happened. Slowly."

Carrot nodded.

"Sir, Nobby was told by Foul Ole Ron, there's a rumour that someone put a price on the Patrician, Sir!"

This wasn't as ludicrous as it sounded. The beggars were actually valuable informants, both to the Watch and to anyone of any importance in the City. Because the beggars got everywhere, and in some cases _literally_ had their ear to the ground, they often heard things well before anyone else. After all, they were pretty much invisible to a lot of people, in the same way that a servant might be, or a table. Just _there_, and of no consequence. So, often people spoke incautiously around beggars and, as any good politician knew, knowledge is power. Many a beggar has had a handsome price paid for juicy tidbits of information to the right people.

Vimes frowned. It didn't sound right, somehow. Something was off, but he didn't know what.

"Did Foul Ole Ron know when it was supposed to happen?"

Carrot paused as he looked at his notebook. "Not really, but he thought it might be fairly soon. The Smell agreed."

Vimes shuddered involuntarily. Foul Ole Ron didn't just smell, he Smelled. His aroma had taken on its own distinct personality and regularly wandered around independently of its owner. Foul Ole Ron's Smell had the ability to not just make one's eyes water, but completely shut down all olfactory functions, drill through the sinuses and force you to your knees. People _paid _Ron to keep his Smell away from them.

Vimes nodded. "We patrol around the Palace, starting tonight," he shouted over his shoulder as he headed back up the stairs.

* * *

The room was dark, lit only by a couple of strategically placed lamps. A loose circle was formed by several deep, comfortable chairs and cigar smoke coiled thickly up towards the ornate, stuccoe'd ceiling.

A faint sloshing sound was heard in the silence from the depths of one of the chairs, as ice cubes clinked against glass.

"Are you…sure….that this will work?" A high backed chair asked, worry lacing his tones.

A throaty chuckle came from a particularly comfy looking winged chair. "My dear boy, nothing could be simpler! He is nothing more than a mere foot pad."

Several other chairs in the circle chuckled, fresh cigar smoke blew up towards the ceiling and ice cubes clinked.

"Gentlemen," a high backed chair upholstered in burgundy velvet interjected as the chuckling died down. The silence took on a more serious tone as the chairs listened. "There is nothing to worry about," the smooth tones sounded amused. "Once the matter is resolved, the balance will be restored. And we, my dear Sirs, will be back where we belong!"

One by one, tumblers of expensive spirits emerged from the depths of the chairs in a silent toast.

* * *

_**TBC…**_

_**Comments? Tell me!**_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Long Shadows**_

_A Sybil Ramkin/Sam Vimes fic, set prior to their marriage. A series of events place both Vimes and Sybil in situations they never thought would be in. The big question? Is it too late…..?_

**Rating:** T potentially

**Disclaimer:** Sadly they are not mine. Pterry must take all credit. I just take them out for a short stroll every now and again.

**Note**: _This is set, loosely, after Guards! Guards! But before their marriage at the end of Men at Arms. Any mistakes are entirely my own!_

**A/N**: _I have used 'artistic license' with Lord Rust's age, as by Snuff he is an aged, shadow of his former self in a wheelchair. I envision him to be approximately the same age as Sybil, possibly no more than 10 years older? Any glaring errors with regard to continuity, quirks of a character, or indeed anything else, are entirely my own. Think of it as artistic license :D_

**Chapter Two**

_In the beginning_. Such portentious words. Nonetheless, through the stars of the great intergalactic void, the apparently impossible, yet stubbornly real world of the Discworld passed. A disc that rotated on the backs of 4 elephants who were, in turn, mounted on the carapace of Great A'Tuin, the turtle. It is said that the Discworld has been allowed to survive for so long because Gods enjoy a joke as much as the next anthropomorphic deity. Possibly more, being as their idea of a joke is Snakes & Ladders with greased rungs. The trick is to spot the grease in time. Better yet, avoid the ladder.

* * *

In another time and place, coins were exchanging hands. Admittedly one set of hands were gnarled and extremely dirty, grabbing at the change with unexpected swiftness and pocketing somewhere in the unmentionable depths of their person. The other set of hands had dropped the coins from a height, as if desperate not to be contaminated. These hands were clean and far too soft looking to ever have done manual labour. No words were spoken. A piercing stare, and both were swallowed up by the crowd.

* * *

Lady Sybil Deirdre Olgivanna Ramkin sat at her dressing table with a flutter inside that she hadn't felt since she was a girl and making her debut into Society. Grimacing, she remembered that it was on the arm of one Ronald Rust, whose entire conversation had consisted of talking over her and how breeding always won out. Fitness for high office, according to Rust, mattered not in aptitude. Greatness was measured in lineage – never mind victories won at great cost to the victorious, or strategic suicide, such pyrrhic victories WERE STILL VICTORIES. By this point in the conversation little flecks of spit had started to fly and a small vein throbbed in his temple. Rust was one of those officers who sent troops into battle whilst sitting at the back, endorsing his men to show them "a taste of cold steel," whilst intending to do absolutely nothing to endanger himself.

Shaking her head, Sybil scrutinized her reflection worriedly. She had invited Captain Vimes over for dinner and she wanted to look her best. Sybil really didn't know much about this sort of thing. She was, in the main a very honest and forthright person, the coy games of courtship had baffled her and, somewhat bewildered at people not saying what they meant, she had side-stepped it all gladly. And yet, yet now fate had delivered her a scowling, angry mass of bad manners marinated in alcohol and fermented in cynicism and….and she was hopelessly lost. Sybil sighed. What did Vimes look for in a woman? Was he just being polite? Sybil bit her lip as she rearranged her wig and placed diamond clips at strategic points – she had chosen a dark brown, slightly more formal design – and inspected her make-up drawer. Its contents looked like she hadn't ventured there since she was 17. Smiling slightly, she set about accentuating her strong features and allowing herself to dream. No one could take that away.

* * *

Captain Vimes glared upwards as the last of the icy cold trickle ran down his back. A slow, slithering noise was all that was left of the offending gargoyle who had dumped a load of water off his gutter. He had gone on patrol several hours earlier than the night watch generally did. There were two reasons for this – firstly, he was due at Lady Ramkins(and he did not want to examine that relationship too closely just yet), secondly, he wanted to look at the Patrician's Palace himself. He didn't know what he expected to find, but if someone had put a price on the Patrician something was surely going to happen. He didn't know what, but he damn well wanted to be there when it did. He turned his baleful eyes up to the darkening sky again. Someone up there was having a bloody good laugh at his expense. Hell, they'd been laughing since he had been _born_. Bastards. He hunched his neck into the standard issue, oiled cape, and tried to ward off the encroaching shivers. So far, the walls around the Palace were resolutely free of would be murderers. Vimes sighed. Well, what did you expect? Really? He just knew he had to do something, anything was better than nothing.

His feet trudged their way back to the warmth of the Watch house. Nobby and Colon nodded around greasy slices of pizza and Carrot saluted smartly, breast plate gleaming. Vimes acknowledged the greetings and hung up his cape by the door.

"I'll be off in a few minutes lads, just remember, patrol around the Palace, keep an eye out for anything unusual."

"Unusual…how?" Nobby queried after a pause.

"Just unusual, Nobby. You know, more than usual." Vimes inwardly groaned as the sentence left his mouth.

"Unusual unusual then," Nobby said cheerfully.

Colon glared at Nobby, well, as much as any man can with a greasy ring of cheese fat around his mouth.

"I know what you mean Sir," Colon said over Nobby's sotto voce muttering of "dunno what the problem is, just asking, what's wrong wiv that?"

"Right, any problems, you know where I am, right?"

Colon grinned. "Oh yes, Sir, right in there Cap'n."

Nobby leered. It was truly a horrifying sight. Vimes turned around quickly, and found himself staring at his own reflection in an extremely well polished breastplate that had altogether too many straps and contours to be Watch issue. Around the side of what appeared to be a man-mountain, Vimes could make out the form of Carrot, with his brow creased in confusion. Nobby and Colon were frozen in their seats, each having what Vimes now recognized as Palace Guards holding them in their seats by means of gripping their shoulders.

"What the hell is this?" Vimes rasped, his insides coiling in an acidic mixture of fear and anger. He hadn't had nearly enough Bearhuggers to face the night, and it didn't look like he would be getting any anytime soon.

The Palace Guard in front of Vimes stared impassively back at him.

"Captain Samuel Vimes, you are under arrest for the attempted murder of his lordship, Lord Veterinari. You do not have to say anything but anything you do say may be given in evidence."

He nodded to his colleagues. "Take him away."

Grinning at Vimes as he was seized in a strangle hold, he said through an extremely aggressively trimmed beard, "Been a long time coming, eh, Vimesy?"

* * *

_**TBC…**_

_**Comments? Tell me!**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**Long Shadows**_

_A Sybil Ramkin/Sam Vimes fic, set prior to their marriage. A series of events place both Vimes and Sybil in situations they never thought would be in. The big question? Is it too late…..?_

**Rating:** T potentially

**Disclaimer:** Sadly they are not mine. Pterry must take all credit. I just take them out for a short stroll every now and again.

**Note**: _This is set, loosely, after Guards! Guards! But before their marriage at the end of Men at Arms. Any mistakes are entirely my own!_

**A/N**: _I have used 'artistic license' with Lord Rust's age, as by Snuff he is an aged, shadow of his former self in a wheelchair. I envision him to be approximately the same age as Sybil, possibly no more than 10 years older? Any glaring errors with regard to continuity, quirks of a character, or indeed anything else, are entirely my own. Think of it as artistic license :D_

_I am not sure whether Sybil and Rust are a little OOC, I didn't think Sybil would be unaffected by Vimes situation especially as they weren't even engaged at this point._

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Lord Downey steepled his fingers and narrowed his eyes at the occupant of the chair opposite his vast mahogany desk.

"My lord, I was not aware of any ... _arrangement_ with Lord Veterinari."

The other man smiled as if he had learned it from a book.

"Not an ..._arrangement_, Lord Downey. More of an," the man paused. "Think of it as an 'incapacitation'."

Lord Downey held his gaze.

"Very well. I trust the assassins will not be implicated in this...incapacitation?"

The other man smirked. "Lord Downey, the recriminations have already begun. In full light of day, no less!"

* * *

Captain Vimes stood woodenly at attention in the Rat's Chamber, at the Patrician's Palace before a hastily convened Privy Council chaired by Lord Rust.

_Ah_, thought Vimes. _The cat's out of the picture, the rats come out to play_.

"Vimes!" barked Lord Rust. "Are you even listening? Do you have no concept of the seriousness of your position?"

"Yes, milord. I certainly know _exactly_ where I'm standing right now." Vimes kept his eyes trained just above and slightly to the left of Rust's head. If he concentrated extra hard he might just be able to ignore the gnawing rage and fury boiling inside of him.

"It..._pleased_...you to be smart with Lord Veterinari, Vimes," hissed Lord Rust. "I however, don't take such a view. You address me properly Vimes."

"Yes milord."

"I take it you have the intelligence to work out why you're here Vimes?"

Rust glanced at the assembled guild leaders arranged around the table.

"Actually no, my lord. I don't know." Something rebelled in Vimes and snapped. Maybe it was Rust's supercilious face, perhaps it was his braying tone of voice, or maybe it was being treated like shit on a shoe one too many times, either way Vimes heard the anaesthetic, siren call of oblivion and longed to throw himself into her arms.

Rust blinked, his pale blue eyes bulged slightly.

"What did you say?"

"I'm supposed to be accused of trying to murder Lord Veterinari! How the bloody hell could I do that? I was outside! We'd had information from Foul Ole Ron that there was a plot so we patrolled outside the Palace!"

"It's only your say so Vimes. The beggars say anything for a few dollars," Rust waved his hand dismissively. "Plus, need I remind you of your well known saying _'If anyone's going to kill him, it'll be me_.'"

Vimes gaped. Mutterings of "Old Stoneface" could be heard around the table.

"My oh my, could this be a reference to Old Stoneface, who had a nasty habit of chopping off the head of City leaders?" Vimes asked manically. "I do believe it is! Is he a distant ancestor of mine? Why, yes he is! So it must be me then, mustn't it?" He growled the last bit, trying to drown out the blood pumping furiously in his ears.

"Do you really think I'm divulging my sources Vimes? I wouldn't be a _gentleman_ if I did that! Something you will know nothing about, happily."

Something in Rust's demeanour made Vimes stop.

"What the hell does that mean," he growled.

"In current circumstances, you are prohibited from visiting Lady Ramkin. You are not dragging a noble woman into your mess."

"You have no jurisdiction over my personal life!" Vimes roared leaning over the table.

"I rather think I do Vimes, I rather think I do." a cold smile flitted across Rust's face. "Even more when I tell you that pending further investigation you are under house arrest at the Watch house and for the duration you are, effectively, a civilian. Your badge please."

* * *

A dignified 'clang' resounded through the Ramkin mansion as someone enthusiastically rang the front doorbell. Sybil had heard that some big news had erupted down in the city but hadn't paid a great deal of attention, preferring to wait until Sam arrived. Pulling the neckline of her suddenly too sensible dress a little lower, she wiped her suddenly sweaty hands and pulled open the heavy front door.

"Captain!" she exclaimed in what she hoped was an attractively alluring voice. "Do come..." she stopped.

"_**Ronnie**_?"

Pulling her neckline higher in sudden embarrassment, she stared at her visitor.

"Well?" she asked briskly. "Don't just stand there catching flies. What can I do for you?"

"You are ...friendly... With Vimes are you not?" Rust pursed his lips beneath his blonde mustache and his pale eyes appraised her intently.

Sybil stared back, equally coldly. "Whether or not I know him is most definitely no concern of yours Ronald Rust. Now if that's all you came to say..." she began to close the door, but Rust stepped quickly over the threshold, his foot stopping the door in its tracks.

"Remove your foot Ronald." Sybil snapped.

"Sybil, I have news."

Rust watched her reaction closely. She seemed slightly flustered, whenever Vimes was referred to, something which most definitely was not like Sybil. She was known for her calm, practical, level headedness, certainly not prone to flights of fancy.

That a bedraggled, impoverished night watchman could turn her head and turn her into a giggling girl was a travesty that could not be borne. Rust gritted his teeth.

"News?" she asked, a tiny furrow appearing between her delicate eyebrows.

Rust nodded, a malicious enjoyment unfurling within him.

"About Sam?"

Again, Rust nodded, his clenched fists hidden inside his jacket sleeves.

"Vimes has..._ah_...been accused of attempting to, I use the term loosely, _assassinate_ the patrician."

Sybil stared at him for a moment before throwing her head back and rather unexpectedly letting loose a peal of hearty laughter.

"Ronnie, old chap, can you think of anything more unlikely?"

"Sybil, it's true. Vimes is under house arrest at the Watch house, by order of the privy council."

"By order of _you_ then."

"We had to act on the facts Sybil. Information was received about a plot – unknown to the Assassins, Downey informs me, Vimes was noticed prowling outside the palace and the patrician is..._ah_...incapacitated. Not to mention is continuing ungentlemanly conduct and repeated threats against Lord Veterinari."

"Havelock?"

"He will live, I understand."

Sybil sagged against the door frame.

"_Sam_..." she said in a small voice.

Placing a hand on her shoulder, he firmly steered her indoors and called for Willikins.

"A small brandy for her ladyship," he barked.

"Very good sir," the butler withdrew silently.

"What will happen to him, Ronnie?" Sybil felt the world underneath her begin to tilt. Her and Vimes had had an...understanding. They were planning to marry. This simply could not be.

"Help me get to the bottom of this Ronnie, he's innocent. This isn't Sam!"

* * *

**_TBC…_**

**_Comments? Tell me..._**


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 – Long Shadows

_A Sybil Ramkin/Sam Vimes fic, set prior to their marriage. A series of events place both Vimes and Sybil in situations they never thought would be in. The big question? Is it too late…..?_

**Rating:** T potentially

**Disclaimer:** Sadly they are not mine. Pterry must take all credit. I just take them out for a short stroll every now and again.

**Note**: _This is set, loosely, after Guards! Guards! But before their marriage at the end of Men at Arms. Any mistakes are entirely my own!_

**A/N**: _I have used 'artistic license' with Lord Rust's age, as by Snuff he is an aged, shadow of his former self in a wheelchair. I envision him to be approximately the same age as Sybil, possibly no more than 10 years older? Any glaring errors with regard to continuity, quirks of a character, or indeed anything else, are entirely my own. Think of it as artistic license :D_

The shadows ebbed into daylight, ebbed back into shadows. Vimes lost track of the days in a haze of Jimkin Bearhuggers. Lying face down on his creaky old cot, on the mattress that went *_gling_*, at the Watch house, he turned his head on the stained pillow enough to take a pull from the half empty bottle that nestled in his hand. The possibly carcinogenic liquid had long ago ceased to burn, as long as it killed the synapses in his brain he didn't care. _Even Sybil hadn't been..._ He didn't want to examine why that stung.  
The look on Rust's face, a look of contempt, a look almost of victory. Men like Rust thought all they had to do was crack a whip and you fell at heel like a cowed dog. Vimes felt the impotent fury rise. The Night Watch, even if it was down at heel and all but useless, would not be whipped back and muzzled. The sound of Rust's voice filled his head, "…_house arrest until further notice_…" "_You are not to see Lady Sybil_"... that did it. For the first time in his whole miserable life, someone had found him worthy of smiling at, and now a man with a receding chin and fitness to rule based on nothing more than an accident of genetics thought he could take that away. The voices were loud. Vimes began to sing.

Back in Scoone Avenue, Lady Sybil had pulled herself together. No use letting the side down, she'd be no use to Sam if she didn't start thinking. And the place her thoughts were taking her weren't pleasant. She poured herself a particularly fine red wine and pulled a notepad towards her. After a few jotted notes she grimaced. All that was known was that Foul Ole Ron had gone to the Watch with overheard news of a supposed planned attempt on Havelock's life. Vimes had acted on that information and patrolled around the Palace. Next thing anyone knew, the Palace guard had broken down the door to the Watch house on Treacle Mine Road and arrested Sam. Sybil was no detective but there were more holes in that than a ... holey thing used for draining things.  
It would have been so easy for someone to have made sure Ron was nearby and orchestrate it. Or even just pay him. So why hasn't Ron been picked up and questioned? Someone wanted Sam there, she was sure of it. Lady Sybil drained her wine, a deep frown creasing her normally sunny countenance. Unless someone didn't want too many questions... She straightened her shoulders, causing other parts of her to move in a fashion reminiscent of continental drift, and pocketed her notebook. It was time to jolly well get some answers and if she had to pull rank, she _damned_ well would.

"Young man, you will cease asking pointless questions and take me to Havelock right now!" The strident aristocratic tones of Lady Ramkin had the desired affect. The guard on duty at the Palace shrank inside just a little bit more, to his confusion and shame. It was just his luck to encounter Lady Ramkin, he reflected glumly. Just when his colleague had nipped off for a toilet break. Lady Ramkin's voice was one that no matter how hard one tried, you could not disobey. Generations of army generals were summoned in just a few syllables and your legs moved without conscious thought.  
"Gods," the guard thought, "I pity whoever messes with her," he shuddered, wearing the bruised expression of one who has been thoroughly berated. His next thought was, "Havelock? The Patrician has a first name? And someone actually knows him well enough to use it?"  
"Now, please! Stop dilly-dallying!" The guard sprang into action, pulling his halberd upright and standing to one side. How the hell does she do it? He muttered to himself, glaring at his colleague who had chosen that moment to reappear and whose mouth was twitching.  
Like a Royal flotilla, Lady Ramkin sallied forth determined to find justice. If she could wreak vengeance at the same time, so much the better.


End file.
